


Naps and Occasional Calisthenics

by Lady_of_the_Refrigerator



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_the_Refrigerator/pseuds/Lady_of_the_Refrigerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liz was so exhausted that she knew no matter what awaited her inside the container, she would probably crash just as soon as the doors closed behind her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Liz bounced on the balls of her feet, hovering close behind Red’s shoulder while he fiddled with the doors on the shipping container. She was so exhausted that she knew no matter what awaited her inside the container, she would probably crash just as soon as the doors closed behind her. Nervous energy was the only energy she had left.  
  
She stood back to give Red room to pull the doors open and when he did, her jaw dropped and she nearly began to weep in sheer relief. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for what he was doing for her even when his hideouts were purely utilitarian bolt holes, but she really hadn’t been looking forward to spending a week in another holdover from the Cold War with cots made up with scratchy blankets and a staticky black and white TV that could barely handle the local news.  
  
This, though… This was simple but elegant, making good use of the limited space without skimping on creature comforts. And, by God, she could use some creature comforts right about now.  
  
“Not bad, huh?” Red asked; he had a faint smile on his face and she got the distinct impression that he was pleased she liked it. Liz hummed her agreement, blinking to clear the tears forming in her eyes. Red had the good grace to look away until she could get ahold of herself again while he ushered her inside and locked the doors.  
  
“We should try to get a few hours sleep while we can. Would you like the shower first? I promise you’ll feel like a new person afterwards.” She nodded mutely, still marveling at the magnificence of the container.  
  
He led her around the dividing wall that served as a hallway between the kitchen and the small bedroom and bathroom, and quietly showed her how to work the shower before leaving her alone, because the controls were wonky and the last thing you need after a long traumatic day is to be outsmarted by an unfamiliar faucet.  
  
After adjusting the temperature, she stepped under the spray and let it wash away days worth of blood, sweat, and tears, and the underlying, acrid stench of her fear.  
  


* * *

  
Red was right about the shower. She hadn’t had time to do more than splash her face with water since she dyed her hair, so she left the shower feeling incredibly refreshed and rejuvenated. But most of all, she felt _clean_. For the first time in… well, she didn’t know how long. Days blurred into weeks. She could no longer say how long it had been since she handed over The Fulcrum to Red and watched as he was shot down in front of her. It felt like months ago. It felt like yesterday.  
  
Liz stopped short when she came into the bedroom and found Red doing pull-ups on one of the exposed metal beams that made up the doorway into the rest of the container. He was barefoot. And shirtless, but for some reason his bare feet caught her attention first, at least until the angry pink of the fresh scar on his torso drew her eyes up to his naked chest.  
  
He dropped to his feet with a surprising lightness and grace, and pulled his black button-down back on, unhurriedly fastening a few buttons.  
  
Liz swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “Should you be doing that so soon after being shot?” she asked, grateful that her voice was finally cooperating again for the first time since before they arrived at the port.  
  
Red shrugged. “Gotta keep up with my rehabilitation even without Dembe around to chase after me.”  
  
He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her, his head tilted to one side as he studied her face. Looking for what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. Signs that she was about to crack again under the pressure, perhaps? She must look better than she had earlier, even though she still couldn’t think about the smell of burnt diner coffee without seeing the horrified eyes of the hostages staring at her in her mind’s eye.  
  
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You go ahead and shower. I think I left you enough hot water.”  
  
“It heats it on demand.”  
  
“Good to know.”

 

* * *

  
Liz stirred when the bed dipped under Red’s weight.  
  
“Red?” she said, her voice scratchy with sleep.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
She reached out across the bed and found his bare forearm, his skin soft and still warm from the shower, and gave it a gentle, squeezing caress. He didn’t pull away, not even when she slid her hand up his arm to the beginning of his t-shirt sleeve and ran her thumb along the edge of the thick jersey cotton and the shiny, bumpy skin that peeked out from under the hem, so very similar to the scar on her wrist.  
  
He shifted on the bed, more facing her now than not, and reached his free hand out for hers, tracing her scar as she traced his.  
  
There was a question she could ask, but right now she didn’t really want to. Not when it seemed like he was perfectly comfortable acknowledging the silent connection she made as long as he didn’t have to explicitly confirm it out loud. Her memories of her past grew clearer by the day anyway. Soon enough she wouldn’t have to ask at all.  
  
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble.  
  
“You, too.”  
  
“I will. Don’t worry about me.” He offered her a smile that was far from reassuring. Liz could picture him getting up as soon as she fell asleep again, something she certainly didn’t want. Sharing the bed was practical. Just as practical as changing clothes next to each other in the back of a silver panel van. He never gave her a reason to feel uncomfortable with him, she doubted he would start now.  
  
She shuffled her body closer to his and rested her head on his shoulder. It felt… different… like this, lying down instead of sitting, but she was too tired to care much about examining the reasons.  
  
Red wouldn’t move if he thought he’d wake her. That thought alone was enough to lull her back to sleep, knowing he’d still be there when she woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in what felt like years, Liz’s first thought upon awakening was not informed by anxiety or fear or dread. No, for once it was informed by the very simple pleasure of waking up slowly, feeling well-rested and relaxed, enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. After the last few days, that was quite remarkable. She never thought she’d ever find any sort of honest to goodness calm again, especially not in the midst of this storm, no matter what Red had advised her to try to do.  
  
Her first thought, incidentally, had been this: say what you will about Raymond Reddington, but the man had impeccable taste in blankets—heavy enough to help her fall asleep and stay asleep, not too hot or too cool, not apt to tangle around her legs. She had spent many a sleepless, uncomfortable night twisting her way out from under Tom’s questionable choice of quilt or duvet, so this simple fact was as refreshing as her sleep had been.  
  
Liz yawned and began to stretch out the kinks in her body, but she froze with the sudden realization that Red was awake; he had let out a reflexive, ticklish laugh when she moved against him and instantly tried to muffle himself. Considering she stopped moving with her face pressed awkwardly into the crook of his neck, she was pretty sure he knew she was awake now, too.  
  
That familiar anxiety began to creep its way back up her spine, tensing her shoulders and setting her heart to beat faster. Oh, well. The calm was nice while it lasted.  
  
This wasn’t supposed to get weird; it was just practicality, after all. But maybe she’d been kidding herself. Maybe there were too many things—unresolved and unspoken—between them for that. He’d been the de facto gatekeeper with regards to so much of her past for so long that without the antagonism and resentment to keep her in check, all she had left was that indescribable _pull_ she never quite understood.   
  
Liz steeled herself and peeled her face from his neck, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth with a groan. She pushed herself up so she could see his face and said, “Sorry. I think I might have drooled on you.”  
  
“Might have?” His eyes danced with amusement, the same amusement that rumbled through his chest under the hand she had braced there. He reach up to test the skin on his neck and his fingers came back damp.  
  
Liz felt her face heat; she took her hand off his chest as if she’d been burnt. “Oh my God. Why didn’t you make me move?”  
  
“It was a small price to pay.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
He tilted his head to one side, looking at her with that odd warmth that made her stomach flutter. “For you to get some rest.”  
  
Her chest tightened and her eyes began to sting; she sunk the sharp tip of a tooth into her tongue, hoping to stave off the tears that always seemed to come too easily lately.   
  
“I hope you slept, too,” she said. She didn’t think her voice gave away just how close she’d come to breaking down.  
  
“I did. A little.”  
  
“Did I keep you awake?” Red’s cheek twitched under his left eye; he didn’t answer. “I did, didn’t I?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice quiet.  
  
She frowned. “It does,” she said, and started to crawl off the bed. “I can get up and let you sleep longer. It’ll be—”   
  
“Please.” He shook his head, his mouth working silently a few times before he finally said, “I’d rather get up if you do.” His brow furrowed as he studied her. “Unless you want some time alone.”  
  
“No,” she said, though speaking such a simple word aloud almost felt like she was suffocating. Her tongue was heavy and sluggish in her mouth. Not again, she thought. What a terrible time to struggle with words. She settled down with her legs folded under her and rubbed discreetly at her scar. “I’ll stay. You could still sleep longer, though. Is there any reason we have to be up yet?”  
  
“No, I suppose there isn’t. But it might be a good idea to eat something soon. I mean, considering…” He shrugged his shoulder, making it clear what he was insinuating. At last, the tension broke in her chest and she could breathe properly again.   
  
“Oh, shut up, I said I was sorry.”  
  
“Lizzy. Honestly.” He reached out and covered one of her hands in her lap, giving it a little squeeze. “Does it seem like I mind?”  
  
No, it didn’t. Why didn’t he mind? Why didn’t he mind so many things that so many other people minded when it came to her?  
  
“Come on,” he said, patting her leg just above her knee, “I’ll make you some dinner-slash-breakfast. You’d be surprised how well-stocked the kitchen is in this thing, I could probably whip up a three-course meal. And we still have Chui’s pie for dessert.”   
  
Liz’s stomach dropped at the mention of the pie. She ducked her head, breaking eye contact, and found herself watching Red’s smile slowly fade into a frown.  
  
“Hey.” He sat up and brushed the curtain of her hair back from her face, his fingers ghosting softly over her skin, the fine hairs on her cheek; he tucked her hair safely behind her ear and met her eyes, his concern clear as day. “Are you OK?”  
  
Liz swallowed hard. He was always so _gentle_ when he touched her like this and it made her so… Well, her stomach was unsettled enough without adding butterflies to it. When he looked at her like he was right now, she could almost see herself crossing a line she knew she shouldn’t cross. It would be so easy. Instead of just looking, she could lean closer and simply…  
  
She shook herself mentally.  
  
“Yeah. I guess I’m just more hungry than I thought I was.”


	3. Chapter 3

Home.  
  
What a strange concept that was.  
  
At this point in Liz’s life, it was almost completely foreign to her. Her father was dead, whatever little extended family she had left probably believed she was a terrorist, she’d been living out of various motel rooms for a year, and shared a brownstone with a stranger before that. None of this was conducive to feeling like she had a home. In fact, at the moment she was quite literally homeless, adrift on a container ship heading towards Spain with her partner in crime.  
  
To be someone’s way home… She couldn’t even fathom it. Just the thought took her breath away.  
  
Red told Liz the day they met that he thought she was special. She had thought he was either manipulating her or lying or was at the very least deluding himself—she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he truly meant it. But Red never lied to her, she knew that now.  
  
She felt like she was floating on the breeze whipping through her hair. All she’d been hoping for from Red when she told him how she was feeling was some commiseration and advice, perhaps in the form of a relatively straightforward and easily digestible parable to suit her fragile mental state.  
  
After all, twenty-some-odd years ago, Red had been exactly where she was. He’d been set up, probably by the very same people who set her up. He knew this life. He knew how it could wear on you.  
  
Liz just wanted him to say something to make her feel a little bit better about herself. Of course he had to go above and beyond that and shoot straight for making her feel needed, wanted, _loved._ In spite everything she’d done.  
  
Or maybe—probably—because of it.  
  
He knew very well what she was capable of, probably better than anyone else in her life. He just might be the _only_ person in her life who was willing to let the image he held of her change to better align with who she really was, the only one who took the bad with the good and was still able to, well…  
  
To look at her the way he looked at her.  
  
And when he looked at her, it showed, really. That he saw his way home. She’d been trying to puzzle it out for so long now to little avail, but once he explained it, she kicked herself for not recognizing it sooner. Although, she couldn’t help being blind to it, really. No one ever looked at her like that before.  
  
She wasn’t Tom’s home. She hadn’t been Nick’s. They hadn’t been hers. Tom came the closest, but Tom wasn’t real.  
  
This was real. Red was real.  
  
Against all evidence to the contrary, past all the smoke and mirrors, all the mysteries and deceptions, all the posturing and bravado, Red was, at his core, a simple man with a simple truth.  
  
He cared about her. He… He loved her.  
  
When all else failed, he hoped there was a part of her that could find solace in that.  
  
And there was. His opinion, what he thought of her… It mattered a great deal. It mattered long before it logically should have mattered, when he shouldn’t have been anything more than her CI. It had frightened her, how much he mattered. She pushed him away because of it, tried so hard to shove him into that _‘this is strictly professional’_ box she carried around with her, but he never, ever fit.  
  
She wanted to tell him that, to give him something in return, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was stare at him while he stared up at the stars, and feel wind-whipped and breathless.  
  
Maybe this was how he felt when he tried to share parts of himself with her but came up short. He used his stories to bridge the gap. She wasn’t so good with stories. Actions were more her speed.  
  
“Red?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Would you look at me, please?” she asked. “Or at least in my general direction?”  
  
With great effort, he lowered his head and met her eyes, a sheepish expression on his face. Like she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.  
  
She took said hand in hers and words failed her yet again. Damn it. Now that she had his attention, what the hell was she going to do?  
  
“Lizzy?”  
  
“Dance with me?” she blurted. Red blinked in surprise and she gave a little shrug. “What can I say? Dinner, drinks, music… I feel like dancing. Who knows the next time that’ll happen?”  
  
“Sure. Of course. That’s a wonderful idea. Just let me…” He gestured toward the record player and his small collection of records. She nodded.  
  
He picked something slow and vaguely familiar and came to stand in front of her again while it started to play, wiping his hands on his thighs and bouncing just slightly on the balls of his feet.  
  
He was nervous. Around _her_.  
  
It was _adorable_.  
  
Oh, she was in so much trouble…  
  
He looked around, taking in the corrugated metal at their feet and the open sea surrounding them, and cleared his throat. “You know, as… picturesque… as it would be to dance under the stars, perhaps it would be wise to move this inside?”  
  
(The odd hesitation before he said picturesque made her sure he had almost chosen another word. Romantic, maybe. She would’ve chosen romantic. But maybe that was a little too on the nose for a man who leaned so heavily on metaphors to get his point across.)  
  
Liz allowed him to usher her back onto the smooth, carpeted floor inside the container.  
  
He must have screwed up some courage while he punched in the code on the keypad to shut the door, because when he turned back to her, he took her into his arms without much hesitation at all, much closer than the last time they danced.  
  
There was no finesse to it this time, no art, mostly just gentle swaying along with the music. But he was warm and close and comfortable—exactly what she needed.  
  
Butterflies danced in Liz’s stomach in time with their swaying and her breath stuttered in her chest. That was it, wasn’t it? He really was exactly what she needed, wasn’t he?  
  
“Do you think we’ll ever manage to do it?” she asked, partly to cover up her faltering steps.  
  
Red pulled back far enough to search her face. “What? Exonerate you?”  
  
“No,” she said. His curious gaze weighed heavily on her, so she ducked her head, resting it against his shoulder. “Do you think we’ll ever manage to find our way home?”  
  
Liz felt the slightest hitch in his breathing and the hand he had splayed at the small of her back pulled her a little closer, his fingers catching a bit in the fabric of her shirt. Sneaking a glance at him, she realized he had closed his eyes.  
  
“‘All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by,’” he said, quiet and thoughtful, like he was reliving a fond memory.  
  
“John Masefield?”  
  
“Willy Wonka,” he explained. “I mean, you’re technically right, but that particular misquote is courtesy of Mr. Wonka. I heard it that way when I was 11 and it stuck, even after I learned the correct version.”  
  
“As adorable as that is, it’s not really an answer.”  
  
Red gave a feeble little huff of a laugh that petered out into a sigh. “I don’t know, Lizzy. There are moments when it feels so unlikely, it seems foolish to even try. But then there are moments like this…” Nuzzling his face against hers, he spoke softly into her ear, “and I can believe anything is possible.”  
  
Liz let out a heavy sigh of her own and pressed herself closer to the sturdy wall of his chest. That was… the best she could hope for, really. The best either of them could hope for. Being adrift with Red was far better than going at it alone. Or with anyone else, for that matter. He knew how to navigate these treacherous waters better than anybody.  
  
Someday, hopefully soon, she would feel like she was standing on solid ground again.  
  
For now, she would let him lead.


End file.
